


Love Is The Soul Of A Neat Irishman

by pipdepop



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sean swears a lot, background Sean/Karen, drunkeness/hangovers, for once, implied depression/anxiety, people fall asleep on Arthur, the charthur is implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26541805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipdepop/pseuds/pipdepop
Summary: Sean’s got a lot of love to give. To everybody. Whether they want it or not.(Or: Sean makes it his mission in life to cheer Arthur up – much to Arthur’s dismay. Luckily, Charles is around to help.)
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Sean MacGuire & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 36
Kudos: 197





	Love Is The Soul Of A Neat Irishman

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [these](https://youtu.be/sujvgoo9jMs?t=238) [camp](https://youtu.be/NPs9Jzs2cOw) [conversations.](https://youtu.be/MFrB-4iwK78)
> 
> For best results, read with an Irish accent. (Also gentle reminder to heed the tags, even if this is 99% fluff!)
> 
> Title is from the song Sean [drunkenly sings by himself at his return party.](https://youtu.be/rzU_qKQeoU4?t=1036)

Sean MacGuire is a man of many talents. He’s a quick wit, a crack shot, and he can sniff out opportunity a mile away – whether it be for money, information, or a grand old time. He’s _also_ a right charmer with the ladies. But, he’d say his greatest talent is in reading people’s tells. It’s why he’d be so good at poker when he’s sober (just so happens he’s never sober when he plays poker, but it’s not his fault the two never line up!) It’s a fine talent to have, real useful in all sorts of situations; whether it be in those tense few seconds before a firefight breaks out, and you know when to shoot a bastard before he shoots you; or to tell when the boring fuckers you’ve been teasing all night really _are_ about to wring your neck, and it’s time to make a quick exit out the back door of the saloon.

It’s also bloody useful when you live with over twenty other people. 

Sean likes to think of himself as the gang’s barometer (that’s a fancy kind of measuring instrument that Pearson told him about once). Sure, good ol’ Dutch whips up camp morale with his fancy speeches, and Hosea, even though he is a curmudgeonly old geezer, has got this peculiar talent for sitting down with you like he’s just there to drink his coffee, and next thing you know you’re sobbing about how much you’re a disappointment to your ma while he nods understandingly and rubs circles on your back (not that that’s ever happened to Sean, of course. He’s just seen it happen. To other people.) And the girls, bless ‘em, are always up for putting the world to rights over a shared cigarette, or just having a good whinge about the old folk. But Sean is very much a vital part in maintaining the _emotional wellbeing_ of the gang too. His brief ‘vacation’ with those bounty hunter bastards just proved it; way everyone tells it, they were all _miserable_ in his absence! (And okay fine, being stuck up in the mountains _might_ have been a contributing factor, but still.) Point is, he’s real good at noticing when one of the others needs a good slug of whiskey and a tall tale to cheer them up.

Trouble is, booze tends to inhibit this ability as well.

He’s got _vague_ memories of last night – he remembers his triumphant return speech, and thinking he should get a cot like Marston’s, though he can’t quite recall why. He remembers there was lots of drink, lots of laughs, and lots of singing and dancing – even Arthur Grave As A Tombstone Morgan gave Mary-Beth a twirl around! Speak of the devil, as Sean staggers his way over to the cook fire, desperately hoping there’s still some coffee left, he catches sight of the grumpy old bastard over by the horses. Maybe he was bringing hay over, but by the way the horses are all crowding around him, looks like the man’s broken out the peppermints. Honest to God, he might have all the charm of a cold frog most days, but Sean reckons, no, he _knows_ Morgan’s a big softy - no matter how many times he’s threatened to gag and tie Sean up in the woods and leave him there. 

It’s only after he’s poured half a mug of gritty, over-brewed coffee straight down his throat (and it’s the best damn drink he’s ever had in his whole life) that he bothers to look around again, and realises with a jump that Charles is sitting _right fucking there,_ fiddling about with sticks and feathers. Sean’s never met another person who’s so goddamn huge, but can be so goddamn inconspicuous (he’d asked, once, if Charles would teach him how to hunt – ladies _love_ a rugged outdoorsman – and Charles said he would if Sean could keep perfectly still for five seconds. He maintains to this day that drumming your fingers don’t count as moving.)

“Mornin’, big man,” Sean yawns over his coffee mug.

“Good afternoon,” Charles says pointedly, but Sean can tell he’s amused (at least, he thinks. Gang barometer or not, Smith’s a hard man to read).

“Big night, eh?”

“Mm.”

“And hoo, this lot sure know how to party!”

“Mm.”

“And now _I’m_ back, we’re gonna rakin’ in so much cash, we’ll be havin’ parties _all_ the time!”

“Hm.”

“...Jaysus, you’re a real master of the fine fuckin’ art of conversation, arntcha Mr. Smith?”

“Mm.”

Huffing, Sean refills his cup, and is about to go and pester Pearson into frying something up for him, because by _Christ_ if his head don’t feel like it’s been kicked by a horse, when suddenly,

“Sean?”

“He speaks! ...Aww, don’t look at me like that. What can I help you with, big fella?”

“Did...” Charles Smith may be a hard man to read, and Sean may be hungover as all hell, but he’d say their resident tall, dark and mysterious huntsman looks worried about something. “You were around camp all last night, right?”

“Well o’course! I weren’t going to miss me own party!”

“Did...” Charles looks at him for a moment longer, then seems to make his mind up. “Did something happen to Arthur, last night?”

“Arthur? How d’ya mean?” He glances back over to the horses – Arthur looks fine from here, if you ignore the fact he’s being bullied into giving up all his peppermints.

“He came and found me, last night. Said... some strange things.”

“Like?” And Sean’s got no idea where this is going, but he’s pretty sure this is the most words Charles Smith has ever said to him – and quite possibly the most words Charles Smith has ever uttered in the space of five minutes in his entire life – so it’s gotta be important.

“He...” Charles frowns, watching Arthur (who’s currently trying to convince Maggie to release the corner of his jacket). “He asked me... if I’ve ever felt lonely while I’m surrounded by people.”

Unbidden, another memory from last night comes floating back.

_“Are you having fun Arthur?”_

_“Sure.”_

_“You don’t look like so much fun, boy. Let your fuckin’ hair down like a man! Hell, even old man Strauss is more of a laugh than you boy!”_

_“...Well thank you, kid.”_

“He uh... he weren’t drinkin’ much, I did notice,” Sean tries, desperately sifting through the hazy memories of last night. Was Arthur being a miserable bastard (more than usual anyway) from the start? Or did Sean and his big bloody mouth go and put Arthur in one of his moods?

Because, he certainly ain’t one of the old hands, but he’s been with the gang long enough to notice – internal barometer going off the charts – that Arthur just gets a bit... sad, sometimes.

“Probably a good thing,” Charles mutters, looking pensive as he watches Arthur (who’s still prying his jacket out of Maggie’s teeth, while Old Belle tries to get into his back pocket). And it won’t do at all. Can’t be having the big man (the other one, not Charles) down in the dumps!

“Well, don’t you worry big fella, Sean MacGuire’s on the case!” 

“Meaning..?” 

“Aww come on Charles, you know me! I bring laughter and sunshine wherever I go! I’ll have him all cheered up in no time!”

He sort of meant _after_ his head had stopped pounding, but the doubtful look on Charles’ face makes him determinedly down the rest of his coffee, then purposefully stride (well, shuffle, maybe stagger a little) over to the horses, where Arthur’s managed to free himself and has started brushing down one of the cart horses. 

“Mornin’ English!”

“Afternoon.”

“Not you too!”

Arthur quirks a brow at him, but before he can say anything, Sean feels an insistent nudge against his own back pocket.

“Ennis, me lad! Nope, sorry – I don’t carry ‘round half a candy store like King Arthur here.” He pats Ennis down his blaze in apology.

“He missed you,” Arthur says with a smile, reaching over to pat Ennis on the neck. “But Christ, Sean, you gotta get him used to wearing a harness. Every time we tried to make him take a turn pulling the wagons, he tried to kick our heads in!” 

“He weren’t made to wear a harness, Arthur! He’s a free spirit, like me! Aren’t you boy? Yes you are...”

Arthur just chuckles and carries on brushing down the draft. And this is good! Arthur _loves_ talking about horses – Sean doesn’t know what Charles was all worried about, this is easy. Come to think of it, Arthur loves talking about his _own_ horses even more – and Sean can always sniff out an opportunity.

“Speaking of missing,” he starts, looking around the herd for a familiar golden coat, “I been meaning to ask – why you riding that big bastard?” He nods over to the massive grey Ardennes over at the hitching posts. “Where’s Boadicea?”

And just like that, all traces of a smile vanish of Arthur’s face. Uh oh.

“...Arthur?”

“She, uh...” Arthur clears his throat, hiding under the brim of his hat even as he retreats further behind the draft horse. “She’s... gone. Pinkertons shot her out from under me, on our way up into the mountains.”

Well, shit.

“Aw, hell... I’m real sorry, Arthur.” And he means it - good old Bo was a stunner of a horse, and you could tell she loved Arthur to bits – and that the feeling was mutual. Arthur just nods, lips pressed tight together, and Sean can’t decide whether he should give the man some space or a hug. But Arthur speaks up again before he can make up his mind, voice rough.

“You might wanna steer clear of Atlas for a bit. He uh, still needs some trainin’. Likes to bite anyone who ain’t me.”

“Duly noted, Your Majesty!” The joke sounds weak even to his own ears, but Sean tips his hat and takes the opportunity to beat a hasty retreat. Back at the cook fire, Charles raises an expectant eyebrow as Sean hides behind another cup of coffee.

“...So how’d it go?” he finally asks.

“I, heh, well, y’see...” Sean MacGuire, as a rule, never backs down from a hairy situation – but he does sheepishly toe at the dirt with his boot under the weight of Charles’ stare. “I, uh... _may_ have accidentally brought up his dead horse.”

Charles Smith may be a man of few words, but right now, it doesn’t matter – his put-upon sigh says it all.

* * *

Some people would say that temperance, moderation, and plain fare are in order after a night of over-indulgence. Sean would say that’s a load of bollocks. Which is why he finds himself rummaging through the camp’s designated (and miserably small, in his opinion) ‘treats for special occasions only’ box. He’s about to return to the camp fire, triumphant with a packet of biscuits, when he glances over between the wagons and spots a familiar hat over on the cliffs. Sure enough, Arthur’s perched on one of the rocky overhangs – legs dangling over the edge, elbows resting on his knees, head hung low, shoulders hunched. It’s not, Sean decides, a good look on him. He stands there awkwardly for a moment, trying to calculate his chances of survival, then decides to just go for it.

“King Arthur!” he greets loudly, mainly to give the man a warning so he doesn’t startle and topple over the edge of the cliff. But before Arthur can turn around, Sean flops down behind him and drapes himself over his back. Arthur immediately tries to elbow him in the stomach, but Sean’s always been good at wriggling in or out of situations. 

“The hell are you doin’?” Arthur grizzles.

“You look like you needed a hug!” Sean declares, wriggling to get comfy. “And look what I found! Miss Roberts went on the supply run today, came back with these packets of biscuits – ‘chocolate chip cookies’, they’re called. Apparently, they got chocolate in ‘em!”

“I never would’ve guessed,” Arthur deadpans, “now get the hell offa me!” No denial of the aforementioned need for a hug. Interesting. Sean _might_ not get thrown over the cliff after all. He just shrugs as he turns around to sit leaning his back against Arthur’s, fumbling with the packaging. 

“Anyway, what’re you sulkin’ over here by yourself for, eh?”

“I ain’t sulkin’,” Arthur mutters, sulkily.

“Oh sure – you’re just sittin’ here alone in the dark, staring off into space for fun are ya? Come on, come over the campfire – Javier’s teaching us farm animal-based insults!”

“Not in the mood,” Arthur mumbles. Sean pauses in his quest to get at the biscuits at the flatness in Arthur’s voice. 

“Long day, eh?” he tries. “You went huntin’ with Charles, right? How’d it go?” Sean had thought Charles was right – Arthur’s one of those weirdos who seem to genuinely _enjoy_ spending hours crouching down in the dirt, looking at broken twigs and animal shit and the like – a hunting trip was bound to cheer him up! But Arthur doesn’t reply – though Sean feels him sigh.

“Didn’t catch anythin’? Not to worry – me n’ Lenny can always go steal some more chickens. Hey, maybe we can steal a sheep! Ain’t like Valentine’s short on-”

“We got a bison,” Arthur interrupts flatly.

“Well, don’t sound so pleased with yerself!” But Arthur doesn’t respond to the jab. Sean frowns, tries again. “I _thought_ the stew tasted better’n usual. You boys did good! So what’s got you all sour-faced, eh?” 

It takes a long while for Arthur to reply, and when he does, it’s quiet and mournful.

“Got the bison. Then found a bunch of dead ones, all over the Heartlands. Then found the poachers that did it. They said they was paid to kill as many as they could, n’ make it look like the natives did it.”

_“Bastards,”_ Sean hisses, genuinely disgusted. Though, he’s still not sure if that entirely explains Morgan’s melancholy mood.

“Uh-huh. Charles shot one of ‘em. I beat up the other one. But I didn’t...”

“What?”

“...I didn’t kill him.” 

Sean knows – has seen it, in all its frightening glory, multiple times – that Arthur can be goddamn _ruthless_ when he wants to be. But, he ain’t a sicko – Sean’s never got the impression he actually _enjoys_ killing folk.

“...Okay? And that’s... bad?”

“I didn’t kill him, even though Charles asked me to. But, I figured, maybe the little weasel could go spread the word to all his poacher friends, and they wouldn’t come round here no more. An’... and he said he had a family, and I... But Charles, shit, I ain’t ever seen him so upset.” 

Speaking of, Charles would be proud of how Sean’s managing to stay completely still and silent. And a good thing too, because Arthur’s next words are so quiet, they’re barely audible above the distant rush of the river down the valley.

“Seems I just... keep lettin’ everyone down...”

Now that _is_ a load of bollocks.

“Eh, Charles’ got his own gun, ain’t he? He coulda shot the bastard himself if he felt so strongly ‘bout it.”

“But-”

“But nothin’. You did the right thing, boyo,” Sean declares as he goes back to tearing at the box of cookies. “Think about it: you killed ‘em both, someone woulda found ‘em dead, and figured a way to pin _that_ on whichever tribe lives ‘round these parts too, the poor buggers. But he goes back and tells everyone it was a white fella who beat him six ways ‘til Sunday, they’ll just chalk it up to the usual bandits or outlaw scum or whatever the papers call us these days.”

“...guess that’s true,” Arthur says quietly,

“Bloody well right it is! So that’s that. Quit mopin’. Have a biscuit.”

Arthur snorts – but when Sean reaches back to wave the box somewhere near Arthur’s face, he feels him shift behind him, and a moment later there’s the rustle of paper, followed by quiet munching.

“...they _do_ got little bits of chocolate in ‘em,” Arthur murmurs in surprise, slightly muffled by a mouthful of biscuit.

“They’re good, yeah? We gotta send Abigail on the shopping trips more often.” Arthur just hums in agreement, and they don’t speak for a while – but whenever Sean reaches back, Arthur accepts another cookie. Even once they (well, mostly Sean) have polished off the rest of the box, Arthur doesn’t move, so Sean stays. It’s the least he can do, right? 

But then he feels Arthur curling in on himself again.

“Oi, what’d I say about mopin’?” he warns.

“I ain’t-”

“I’ll go get another packet of biscuits if I ‘ave to!” Sean threatens. “Come on, out with it. You run over a baby rabbit on the way back or somethin’?”

“That was _one time-”_

“Aye, and you was miserable about it for a week! And let’s not forget that fawn stuck in the-”

“All right, all right, Jesus. I just...” Sean’s backrest heaves with a sigh. “Just... wish I’d said somethin’. To Charles. He left, I shoulda followed him... Or not, hell, I dunno.” And, in that same quiet voice, “either way, pretty damn sure he hates me now.”

Sean barks out a laugh at that one.

“Don’t be daft – you’re the only one of us he likes!” 

“How do you figure that?” Arthur scoffs.

“’Cause you’re the only one who can ask him a question and get more’n a monosyllabic answer!”

Arthur’s quiet for a long moment. Sean dares to hope he’s managed to talk some sense into that self-loathing skull of his. But then,

“I didn’t think you knew big words like ‘monosyllabic’,” Arthur says, sounding genuinely mystified.

“Shut up Arthur,” Sean huffs, digging him in the ribs with his elbow. But it gets a chuckle out of the man, so he’ll count it as a win.

* * *

“Uncle Sean! Do you have a pencil I can borrow?”

Sean looks up – and then down – from the rags he’s tying to make fire bottles to see Jack’s little face peering hopefully up at him.

“A pencil? What you want that for, Jackie Boy?”

“It’s a surprise!”

Sean chuckles at the kid’s attempt at a sly look, but shakes his head.

“Nope, sorry lad, no pencils around here. But why don’t you go ask Lenny? He’s the literate type, he’ll have one.”

“...What does ‘littor-eight’ mean?” 

“Heh, it means ‘a waste of time’.”

“Oh.” Jack nods solemnly at this newfound knowledge, but perks up again. “Okay. Bye Uncle Sean!” 

The kid scampers off, and not long after, Sean sees him working on his ‘surprise’ at the table in the middle of camp – looks like he’s drawing something. And _that_ gives Sean an idea. 

After their little chat the other night, Arthur seemed to have cheered up a bit (and the fact that Charles apparently forgave him for the whole poacher incident real quick, judging by the way they soon their heads together, ogling over different types of arrowheads or something, might have helped a bit too). The barometer was balanced, or whatever it is barometers do, and all was right with the world, for a grand total of two whole days. _Then_ Arthur came back from a fishing trip with Jack, looking all upset and agitated, and went off to find Dutch right quick. They ain’t had to scramble to pack up and ship out, so Sean guesses whatever it was can’t be _that_ bad. But Arthur’s been increasingly grouchy ever since – hanging around camp, permanent sour look on his face as he stomps about lugging buckets and grain sacks and firewood and doing other chores all goddamn day. It can’t be healthy, all that hard work.

And the barometer has started wavering dangerously as the rest of camp’s started to notice. All the girls have tried to coax him into sitting down for a chat, with no success. He won’t join the rest of them by the campfire, no matter how much cajoling or jibes they throw his way (“Why doncha have a seat and a swig, Arthur? You keep frownin’ like that, you’re gonna end up with more wrinkles than me!”), instead opting to stalk around the perimeters of camp, even if he’s not meant to be on watch. Even old Hosea can’t convince him to sit down for a game of dominos. In fact, the only ones who seem to be able to get him to sit still for five minutes are Jack (which ain’t that much of a surprise – a bloody grizzly bear wouldn’t be able to say no to that kid), and Charles – on the grounds of teaching him how to make different types of hunting bait or flaming arrows or some other nonsense.

But Sean’s always been good at spotting opportunities.

“Arthur, me ol’ bosom buddy! Need your help with somethin’.”

“I ain’t payin’ off your bounty,” Arthur retorts, not even looking up from where he’s brushing down his new Ardennes. Sean scoffs as he comes to a stop just outside of biting range. 

“Ain’t like you’re one to talk, big man – way I hear it, you and Lenny owe a _princely_ sum for the furniture damage down at Smithfields - and that ain’t includin’ the window!”

“What do you _want,_ Sean?” Arthur growls. Sean waves his hands placatingly.

“All right all right, keep yer hair on. It’s just, I’m worried about the horses.”

_That_ gets his attention real quick.

“Which ones? It ain’t colic, is it?”

“No, no, nothin’ like that. But, I can’t help but notice, this is the third time today you’ve started brushin’ ‘em all down – and it’s not like I ain’t grateful, I am, really! Can almost see my reflection on Ennis’ arse! But if you keep this up, poor things are gonna be bald by the end of the week.”

Lesser men would probably have turned tail at the glare Arthur gives him, but Sean never backs down from hairy situations (and besides – he’s had a lot of practice withstanding Arthur’s glares).

_“Sooo,”_ he carries on blithely, “I thought you might want to help me on a little project-”

“Not interested. I don’t wanna get too far from camp at the moment.”

“You ever wonder if you might be gettin’ a bit paranoid in your old age, English?” Sensing he might be about to get a currycomb to the teeth, he quickly continues, “and you don’t need to worry – no need to leave camp! This project’s of a more... _personal_ nature.”

“Now I _definitely_ ain’t interested.”

“At least hear me out! I’m on a _mission,_ Arthur Morgan. A _quest,_ for that most precious of things!”

“A decent fence? There’s a fella up at Emerald Ranch who-”

“Tch, you don’t have a romantic bone in your body, English. I’m talking about _love,_ you cold-hearted bastard.”

Arthur levels him with a stare, then shakes his head and goes back to brushing Atlas.

“Well I’m flattered, kid, but you’re too young for me.”

Oh for fuck’s- some people just don’t want to be helped, he swears.

“Christ alive – I want you to teach me how to _draw,_ you miserable eejit!”

That makes Arthur pause, and turn to him again, one incredulous eyebrow raised.

_“Draw?”_

“Look. Lenny, fine lad that he is, has been trying to teach me to read and write, yeah? Keeps sayin’ that ladies _love_ a man who can read ‘em poetry. But all them thees and thous and summers days are wasted on me! And I figure – why bother with love _poems,_ when I can draw a love _picture?”_

“You can get arrested for possessin’ those,” Arthur deadpans.

“Aww come on Arthur, I’m serious! Won’t you help a brother win his fair lady’s heart?”

Arthur stares at him again for a long moment – then sighs.

_“Fine.”_

Sean’s always known Arthur’s a big softy. 

“Oh, you’re a good man, Arthur Morgan! A great man! A true-”

“Shut up ‘fore I change my mind. So, what you wanna draw?”

Shit. He didn’t think this through that far.

“Uhhh, I dunno. She likes... whiskey?”

“And you say _I_ ain’t romantic.”

And that’s how Sean finds himself stomping about in the woods like an arsehole, looking for flowers. Bloody typical – he passes the things all the time barely noticing them, but now he’s looking he can’t find any. All he’s come up with so far is a stem of pretty little pink ones. Maybe they’d do? Less is more, Sean thinks as he sniffs them – like a single rose signifies-

“Those are poisonous.”

“CHRIST-!” 

Sean near jumps out of his bloody skin, dropping the flowers in the process, as Charles materialises out of the bushes right beside him.

“Are you _trying_ to give me heart failure, Mr. Smith?!” Sean scolds, clutching at said heart. He must be some kind of fae. It’s the only explanation for how he can move about so quietly.

“I thought John was taking over after me?” Charles asks, ignoring the fact he’s probably just taken a few years off Sean’s lifespan. 

“Eh? Oh, he is. I ain’t here to relieve ya, I’m tryin’ to find flowers for Arthur.”

“... what?”

“Y’know, the pretty things that grow on plants? For Arthur.” 

“...why?” Charles is giving him another one of his unreadable looks. Sean just shrugs.

“Well, I suppose they’re for Karen really – I asked Arthur to teach me how to draw. Dunno what’s lit a fire under his arse, but he carries on like he’s been doin’, _he’s_ gonna have heart failure too! It can’t be good for a man, workin’ like that all the time. So I thought, Arthur likes drawing, it’ll be good for him to sit down awhile, Karen’s got the hump with me again – I dunno what I did this time, I swear – so I’ll ask him to teach me! Next thing I know, I’m on a bloody botanical expedition!”

Charles makes the sound that’s the closest Sean’s ever heard him get to a laugh, and actually _smiles._

“Here. Keep watch – I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Sean’s exchanging the watch post rifle for a big bouquet of wildflowers.

“Aww, Mr. Smith – my favourites! You shouldn’t have! I had no idea you felt th- ...All right, all right, I’ll be off then.”

He’s had less experience withstanding Charles’ glares, so he scarpers back to camp, flowers in hand. 

“Here you are, English!” Sean declares, plonking the bouquet down on the dominoes table.

“The hell did you find all those?” Arthur asks, scowl momentarily disappearing in surprise.

“Charles helped me! Moment I told him I wanted flowers for Karen, he was off like a bloodhound. You see, unlike _some people,_ Mr. Smith is a romantic!”

“Yeah...” Arthur agrees softly, then clears his throat, scowl back in place. “Okay Romeo, get on with it,” he grunts, handing Sean a pencil and some paper he’s managed to scrounge up from somewhere.

“Ey ey hang on, you’re supposed to be teaching me. So come on, Da Vinci – what’s your _process?”_

“My what?” 

“You know! Your technique! Your method! What _inspires_ you, what’s your muse? How do you _make Art?”_

Arthur gives him an unimpressed look.

“My process,” he says slowly, “is puttin’ a pencil against a piece of paper, and movin’ it around until there’s a picture.”

“Jaysus, it’s a good thing you aren’t in academia, Morgan – you’d make for a piss-poor teacher.”

Remembering that the whole point of this was to get Arthur to goddamn relax for a wee while (and noting that the pencil Arthur’s holding looks like it’s about to be snapped in two), Sean waves a dismissive hand.

“Fine, fine. I guess it’s like riding a horse, yeah? You learn by doing? So, hows about I give it a go, and you can give me tips?”

“Sure,” Arthur grits out. So Sean chooses a pretty purple flower that reminds him of Karen’s favourite skirt, holds the pencil how he likes (not that stupid way Lenny keeps trying to get him to hold them), and starts drawing. He’s barely done the outline of the first petal when Arthur grumbles,

“You’re sketchin’, not carvin’. Quit pressin’ so hard, you’ll break the lead.”

“Did someone spit in your coffee this morning, Morgan?” Sean asks conversationally, determinedly carrying on with the next petal. “And yesterday. And the day before. And the day bef-”

A sigh cuts him off. He glances up, but Arthur’s turned away from him, looking down at his boots.

“...M’sorry,” he mutters, and he looks so bloody miserable Sean might just give him another hug.

“Ach, don’t be. Just wonderin’ what bee’s got in your britches, that’s all,” he says lightly, pointedly focusing on his drawing.

“Nothin’ you need to worry about.” 

“But we _are_ worried about you, you daft bastard.”

Arthur fails to hide his look of surprise under his hat in time. And it ain’t right, it really ain’t. In his own way, Arthur’s another key player in the ‘keep this band of trigger-happy reprobates from going for each other’s throats’ team – though he takes a more... _applied_ approach. Arthur won’t sit you down with a drink and lend an ear to all your problems – but he will ride two days out of his way to visit a horse chestnut tree he remembered passing, just because you mentioned you missed playing conkers with your da at this time of year. And yet, Sean’s noticed, he never seems to know what to do with any care or kindness thrown _his_ way. 

Case and point:

“Dunno what anyone’s worried about me for, m’fine,” Arthur mutters.

“Then why ain’t you left camp in four days, eh? Usually we’re lucky if we’re graced with Your Majesty’s presence for two nights in a row!”

Arthur looks like he’s about to mumble some bullshit excuse, but then does the sensible thing and sighs in defeat. Sean MacGuire is nothing if not _tenacious,_ and Arthur bloody well knows it. Slowly, it comes out – a run in with Pinkerton agents, threatening him with the _five thousand_ on his head - in front of Jack, no less. Trying to blackmail him into giving up Dutch’s whereabouts.

“Hah! Well, you just gotta pity the stupid bastards – too bad the fella they picked to bribe is the most loyal man in the gang!”

“They was a _stone’s throw_ from camp. And Dutch-” He cuts himself off, but Sean can read all the tells. The fact they’re still here means Dutch don’t think it’s a big enough problem to move camp over, and Arthur ain’t happy about it. 

“Eh, old Dutch has been givin’ the law the slip since before I was born! He knows what he’s doing.”

But Arthur just huffs in frustration.

“We got _three_ fires goin’, Sean. If those agents bothered lookin’ up, they’d’ve figured there’s a big group camping nearby. What if-”

“But they _didn’t_ – if they had, they woulda rolled in here already! Don’t forget Morgan, these are Government bootlickers – they’re more interested in ticking boxes and writin’ reports than using their fuckin’ eyes.”

“But-”

“Hey, the rest of us’ve been coming and going from camp, and no one’s seen any sign of no lawman – ‘side’s the sheriff, and way I hear it, you’re his new favourite bounty hunter! You n’ the kid just got unlucky, is all. They’ll have pissed off back to their offices to write reports by now.”

But Arthur’s still got an unhappy tilt to his mouth, brow furrowed as he glares at his own sheets of paper, as if he can will them to reveal the answers to all their problems. Christ, where’s Old N’ Grumpy when you need him? Sean’s no Hosea, but he does his best.

“They ain’t gonna come at us in groups of less than forty, Arthur,” he reasons, gentle as he can manage. “Not after the bollocking you boys gave ‘em on the way out of Blackwater. A group that big, we’d see ‘em coming from miles away.” 

In the face of that irrefutable logic, Arthur’s shoulders drop, just a fraction, and Sean smacks the table in triumph.

“Now quit being such a worrywart and teach me how to draw a fuckin’ flower. Because this here,” he declares, gesturing at his first attempt, “looks more like a bloody bullet wound.”

Arthur leans over to have a look, and winces. 

“Well... I mean, for a first attempt, it ain’t _that_ bad-”

“It’s ugly as shite, Arthur.”

“...Yeah, it is. Look,” Arthur scoots his chair closer, starts drawing some light lines next to Sean’s failed attempt, “problem is, you’ve tried to get all the details from the start. It’s better to try and get the general shape of somethin’ first, then add the details later on...”

They spend another hour or so at it, Arthur doodling on his own sheets of paper and leaning over to give tips or make some light outlines on Sean’s paper that he can then go over (and Sean’s actually kind of amazed at how Arthur can turn a few strokes of graphite into something that looks like a flower so damn quickly). Sean pesters him with all the questions he can think of, from when did he learn to draw, to who taught him, to what’s the best kind of pencil to use, and it has the desired effect; slowly, as they sketch away, the tension in Arthur’s shoulders eases. And hey – this drawing thing is actually kinda fun! Beats handwriting practice any day.

Then Sean glances up at the paper in front of Arthur and does a double-take.

_“Is that Charles?!”_

He grabs the sheets from Arthur before he can protest, and stares. In the time it’s taken Sean to draw a few flowers, Arthur’s drawn the bouquet, then his horse rearing up in the air, then a profile of Charles. They’re all in a kinda messy, sketchy style, but he’s still somehow managed to perfectly portray them all – the delicate curve of the petals, the strength in Atlas’ kicking legs, and the lightning-like scar on Charles’ jaw that Sean has seen, but not really _noticed_ before.

“...Arthur,” Sean says, dumbfounded.

“Well, I wasn’t gonna draw _your_ ugly mug,” Arthur grumbles defensively, trying to grab the paper back. But Sean holds them out of reach, grin splitting his face.

“Arthur, these are bloody _brilliant!”_

“Knock it off...”

“No, really! I mean, I seen you always drawing in that journal of yours, but I didn’t realise you was actually any _good!_ The fuck are we robbin’ trains for when we could just sell these? You could do portraits for stupid rich folk – we’d make a fortune!”

“No one would buy scribbles, you dolt.”

But he’s dipping his head in an attempt to hide his blush. Before Sean can further press his case for portrait-based prosperity, a voice pipes up by Arthur’s elbow. 

“Uncle Arthur!” Jack’s there, holding out a piece of paper of his own with a shy smile. “I made you a present! To say thank you for the fishing trip,” he chirps, as Arthur takes it from him. 

“Well, would you look at that? Thank you, Jack - that’s real fine. Ain’t it, Sean?” Arthur holds up Jack’s drawing like some proud parent, and Sean squints a little at it. There’s a stick figure man (quite possibly meant to be Arthur, if the shape of the hat is anything to go by), a large, stick-figure horse (quite possibly meant to be Atlas), and a big, smiling fish. The horse may or may not have the wrong number of legs.

“A real _masterpiece,”_ Sean agrees.

“Oooh, those flowers are pretty! Can you show me how to draw them, Uncle Arthur?”

_Atta boy,_ Sean thinks as he grins, watching as Arthur lets Jack climb up into his lap. 

“Here you go, Jackie – you can use my pencil. I reckon I’m done with it. Wish me luck, boys!”

Jack’s already engrossed in drawing, but Arthur watches in bemusement as Sean takes his own sketch of the flowers and strolls on over to where the girls are doing laundry.

“Ladies,” he greets with a tip of his hat, before presenting his drawing to Karen with a flourish. It doesn’t look half-bad, if he may say so himself.

“...The hell is this?” Karen asks, gingerly taking the drawing like it’s another dirty piece of clothing. 

“A beautiful bouquet, for a beautiful lady – but more permanent than the real thing!” Sean grins, giving her a wink. Karen stares at the paper for a long moment.

“...Did... Jack draw these?” she asks slowly, looking perplexed. 

“Wha- No! He didn’t draw them – shut up, Arthur! – _I_ did!”

“Oh. Well, I...” she looks at the drawing again for a long moment – and then to his delight, huffs a laugh. “Well, reckon this just about sums you up, Sean.” 

“Quirky, rough around the edges, but still gorgeous?” he grins.

“Try ugly, underwhelming, but, against my own better judgement... kinda charming?” 

Tilly and Mary-Beth are making no attempts to hide their giggling, but Sean doesn’t care, because Karen goes and gives him a peck on the cheek – and Arthur’s still hooting with laughter in the background. 

A bloody successful afternoon, by all accounts.

* * *

The stars, Sean decides, are really pretty. Especially when they’re all waving around in the sky like they are now. Pretty like Karen’s freckles. He should go tell her that, he thinks. That she’s prettier than the stars – hah, bet none of Lenny’s stupid love poets have ever thought of that one! He looks around, frowning as the rest of camp starts waving about too. Hang on, wasn’t he just _with_ Karen? 

_“Go sleep it off in your own bed, you drunk bastard!”_

Ah, yeah, he was. His arm still smarts where she thumped him. Hell of a woman, is his Miss Jones. He squints at his surroundings again. Christ, since when was his bedroll so bloody far away? And since when did they have two campfires? Arthur might’ve had a point, they’ve probably got too many fires going. 

Hang on. Arthur. Arthur. There was something he had to do, and it had something to do with Arthur. 

_Oh,_ right. Cheer the bastard up again. It’s turning into a bloody full-time job. Arthur got back earlier in the evening looking miserable - skulked off to eat his dinner with the horses, then retreated to his tent real early, put the flaps down and everything. Didn’t even come join in the singing – even when Sean convinced Javier to play _‘Poor Lonesome Cowboy’,_ and he knows Arthur likes that one. But _this_ time, Sean knows why. The girls had filled him in on all the gossip – even ol’ Grimshaw had thrown in a bitchy remark or two, it was hilarious! It’s all to do with Arthur’s old flame – Mandy Trellis, or something like that. Apparently she wrote a letter, out of the blue, asking to meet up with Arthur in town (“Jaysus Mary-Beth - and people call _me_ a snoop!”), and off he’d gone – in a clean shirt and everything! Didn’t come back for hours, and looked like a kicked puppy when he did (Tilly’s words, not his). And it won’t do, not on Sean MacGuire’s watch!

...Shit, is he meant to be on watch? No, it’s Charles and Javier, he thinks. He’s pretty sure. Maybe.

Back to Arthur. He should do something about it. And when he looks around again, he realises he’s conveniently standing right next to Arthur’s lean-to anyway. It takes him a few tries, but eventually he finds the gap in the tarps and slides in.

“Arthur? You awake?” he whispers (possibly a mite too loudly), squinting in the gloom.

“What now, Sean?” Arthur groans, and oops, he does actually sound dead tired. But still! Sean came here to tell him something. Something important. He just... can’t quite remember what it was right now. So without further ado (and because the ground’s refusing to stay still under his feet), he plops himself down on the cot somewhere near Arthur’s knees. 

“The hell are you- get outta my goddamn tent!” Arthur splutters as he sits up.

“Hey, Karen said the same thing! Funny old world we live in, eh? You know, that gal’s got a mean right hook, bless’er-”

“I’m gonna do more than punch you if you don’t get the hell out-”

“Wait, wait - before you toss my arse over the cliffs, I gotta tell you something! It’s real important!”

_“What?”_ Arthur growls. Sean’s remembered what he came in here for and straightens up, looks Arthur dead in the eyes (or where he assumes his eyes are – it’s bloody dark in here).

“What I gotta say, is: you, Arthur Morgan, are _enough.”_

“...whut?”

So, Sean explains to him, in what perhaps is a bit of a rambling, roundabout way (and he thinks he gets a bit lost somewhere in the middle, but he brings himself back to the topic at hand, which is) Arthur Morgan is a great fella, a fine fella, and any lass (or lad, Sean ain’t one to judge) would be lucky to have him!

“So don’t you worry none about Fairy Gills – the silly bint don’t know what she’s _missing!”_

His eyes have gotten used to the dark inside the tent now, and he can make out Arthur - staring at him like he’s grown a second head.

“...the _hell_ are you on about?”

“The girls told me all about it! Only ‘cause they’re worried about you, y’know. We all were! Old Missus Grimshaw especially – she said that if you wasn’t back tonight, she’d march into town and claw out Moira’s eyes ‘erself!”

Arthur blinks at him in confusion a moment longer – then, bafflingly, lets out a tired chuckle.

“Oh, _that._ Yeah, Susan never did like Mary very much...”

“Well – and I can’t believe I’m sayin’ this, who’d’ve fuckin’ thought, eh? – I agree with the old dragon! Fancy summoning your old beau just to break his heart again – I know you insist you ain’t got one, but you don’t fool me English, I knows yer a big softy-” 

“Wait, _what?_ Break my- the hell you talkin’ about?”

“We all saw it! You rode off this mornin’ like a man being sent to the front lines, and came back lookin’ like a sad puppy!”

“Oh for... Ya’ll been listenin’ to too many of Mary-Beth’s books. She didn’t _break my heart_ or nothin’ like that. She just needed some help gettin’ her brother back – kid got mixed up with the Chelonians, for some godforsaken reason, n’ the sheriff wouldn’t help her because ‘freedom of religion is a constitutional right, even if it is a cult’ or some other bullshit. Fool was about to jump off a cliff!” 

He may be on the wrong side of tipsy, but Sean’s pretty sure he’d have trouble wrapping his head around Arthur’s nonchalance even if he was sober.

“...Then why’d ya come back with a face longer than your horse’s? And go and sulk with ‘im instead of havin’ dinner with the rest of us?” 

“Huh? I had my dinner with Charles.”

“Oh...” Right. Charles is on watch. Arthur must’ve gone to keep him company – what a good pal. “...wait wait, don’t avoid the first question!”

Arthur rolls his eyes – then sighs.

“Christ... if you _must_ know, I took the long way back, along the river, see if I could spot somethin’ to eat that weren’t rabbit or pronghorn. And on the way back, past Flatneck I... met a fella.”

“...okay?”

In the gloom, Sean can see Arthur’s face falling, eyes cast down as he worries a blanket in his hands. 

“...you pass Fort Riggs, on your way outta West Elizabeth?”

Sean shudders. He and Javier had gone back that way – whole place gave him the willies. All them crosses...

“Well... this fella was drunk, camped out by the cliffs – I thought I might sit with the fool awhile, see if he knew anythin’ useful, or had anythin’ worth robbin’. Turns out, he ‘worked’, if you can call it that, at the Fort, ‘fore it burned down. And... and it don’t bear repeatin’, things he said.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I got some idea,” Sean murmurs, suddenly feeling very sober. Arthur glances at him, eyebrows raised.

“I’m a proud almost-graduate of Reform School, remember?” Sean asks, with cheerfulness he absolutely doesn’t feel. “Not that we had it as bad as them poor bastards, but...”

“But it was still bad.” It’s a statement, not a question. Sean just nods, swallowing hard.

“They... they try t’break ya, y’know?” he asks quietly. “They used to go on n’ on about ‘reforging us into upstanding members of society’. That sounds great an’ all – until you remember you gotta melt down the metal and beat it within an inch of its life first... But, heh, they didn’t break Sean MacGuire, nossir! Almost a year in that shitehole, and I never learned to read a single fuckin’ word.”

“That why you won’t let Lenny teach you?” Arthur asks, gentler than Sean’s ever heard him talk to anyone besides the horses. Sean just shrugs one shoulder, clears his throat.

“Anyway. Um. Good... Good talk,” he mumbles, patting Arthur’s knee. “Glad you ain’t had your heart broken again by whats’erface...” He nods to where he’s seen the picture of Arthur’s once-upon-a-time fiancée – then blinks for a moment at the empty shelf.

“I put it away,” Arthur supplies after a moment of Sean’s confused staring. 

“...Really? When?”

“...a few months back?”

“Well, good for you, English!” Sean forces some cheerfulness into his voice. “Somethin’ to be said for movin’ on from our pasts, eh? I’ll be off then-” He makes to stand, and fails miserably. Arthur watches him as he tries to arrange his arms and legs for a few moments, then sighs.

“C’mere, you drunken fool,” he mutters. But when Sean looks up, he’s shifting over on the cot – holds up the blankets in invitation.

“...really?”

Arthur just shrugs.

“’s cold,” he grunts, “and I don’t wanna have to deal with Karen if it turns out I let your drunk ass wander off a cliff.”

_And you look like you need a hug._

Sean’s always been good at reading people’s tells.

“Well, don’t mind if I do! Beats cuddling up to ol’ Swanson for warmth – you know who Margaret is, by the way?” 

“Go to sleep, Sean. n’ quit squirmin’,” Arthur mumbles tiredly. But Sean opens his mouth to speak the other questions on his mind – first and foremost, what the hell did Mrs. Matthews feed Arthur when he was a kid? Because turns out, not only is the man built like a brick fireplace, he’s as toasty as one too! But before he can ask, a big, warm arm comes over him, and before he knows it, Sean’s out like a goddamn light.

* * *

He’s woken some time in the night by the rustle of the tent flap, and cracks an eye open in time to see Charles pause, looking down at the two of them.

“Sean?”

“’ey, Charles. Aw bollocks, I ain’t meant to be on watch am I?” Sean keeps his voice down, even though there’s not much point – Arthur sleeps like a goddamn log, always has done. Sean’s often wondered how he does it, with all the ruckus the others make.

“No,” Charles replies just as quietly. “Just wanted to check on Arthur. I know he... didn’t have a very good day. But, looks like you beat me to it.”

“He’s fine,” Sean yawns, sluggishly patting Arthur’s shoulder. Charles makes a soft sound that may well be something close to a laugh. He’s definitely smiling a bit, and there’s something... fond in his expression that Sean’s half-asleep brain can’t quite wrap itself around.

“Thank you, Sean,” Charles murmurs.

“Eh? What for?” 

“For... doing what you’ve been doing with him. It helps more than you know.”

“Laughter and sunshine,” Sean reminds him with another yawn. “Besides, my actions are purely selfish. You gotta try this some time, it’s like sleepin’ with a walkin’, talkin’ woodstove.”

“I know. Good night, Sean.”

“Nighty night, Mr. Smith,” Sean mumbles, burrowing back under the covers as Charles leaves and Arthur sleeps on.

* * *

It’s not until the next morning, as the fog rolls back down to the Dakota, birds start singing their morning melodies, and golden slivers of sunlight peek through the canvas flaps, that Charles’ words sink in. 

Sean’s so surprised he falls right out of the cot.

**Author's Note:**

> Sean: *dashes off to find Lenny at the watch post*  
> Sean: Lenny, Lenny lad, holy _fuck,_ I can’t believe I didn’t notice sooner-  
> Lenny: Whoa, whoa, slow down! What is it?  
> Sean: _Arthur and Charles, Lenny!_  
>  Lenny: What about ‘em? Are they okay...?  
> Sean: No I mean – well, yeah, they’re fine, but _Arthur._ And _Charles._  
>  Lenny: ????  
> Sean: They’re a thing!!  
> Lenny: Whut?  
> Sean: You know! Like me and Karen!  
> Lenny: Pfft, you _wish_ you and Karen were a thing.  
> Sean: Aw shut it, I’m serious!  
> Lenny: ...for real?  
> Sean: Swear it on me Da’s grave!  
> Lenny: But... They’re not... That doesn’t... I mean, how does that even happen?! Arthur barely ever strings more than ten words together, and Charles hardly talks at all!  
> Sean: That’s the thing though, ain’t it?! They can be all quiet and moody and diffident, _together._ :D  
> Lenny: ...  
> Sean: Great, eh? :D  
> Lenny: ...I didn’t think you knew big words like ‘diffident’.  
> Sean: D:
> 
> Fun fact: chocolate chip cookies, originally called Toll House cookies, were invented sometime in 1937/38 (depending on which source you read) by one Ruth Graves Wakefield – she sold the recipe to Nestlé and was paid a lifetime’s supply of chocolate in return! But we’ll just pretend the general store in Valentine was ahead of its time. 
> 
> So, I’m on my second playthrough and am hanging around camp a lot more than I did the first time around, and I’m getting SO MANY camp interactions I’d never seen before. Dutch telling Sean to cheer up and ‘I need you cheerful’ was an especially interesting one, since it implies that Sean isn’t just the ~~class~~ camp clown – he’s actually relied upon to keep up camp spirits (or at least, Dutch takes advantage of his jokester nature to keep the gang happy). But Sean had a horrible start in life too – ‘the saddest people smile the brightest’, maybe? 
> 
> Anyway – thanks to Ms. Wakefield for inventing choc chip cookies, and thank you, as always, for reading <3


End file.
